Killeen's thirst woke her, her mouth dry as bone and throat aching for water.
She raised herself on an elbow and paused as the bed rocked beneath her and the room revolved slowly.
Cullen looked up from the papers spread across his lap, then gathered them and laid them aside. "Kill?"
"Water," she croaked, and he went to pour her some, held the cup for her. "More."
The second cup went some way to easing her thirst and she sank back to the pillows. "Thanks. What was all the yelling about?"
His mouth quirked down. "That idiot told me you'd recover faster if I stopped coddling you. He said you were enjoying the attention."
"I'd enjoy it more if I could stay awake for it," Killeen said without thinking, then wished the words back. Maker's balls, why not just shout from the rooftops that I want someone else's man to dance attendance on me?
Cullen didn't seem to notice her admission. "I asked him if he'd enjoy my boot up his arse, because that was what he'd get if you didn't start improving."
"I'm all healed up," Killeen said. With an effort, she pushed down the blankets and pulled up her shirt to show him the faint pink scars on her side. "The healer says I'm malingering."
"You?" Cullen said, mouth twitching up. "Has he met you?" Then he frowned. "How did you get that bruise?"
Killeen looked down at the purplish mark that spread from her ribs to her hip. "I'm … not sure. Must have banged something."
"I'll get some salve," Cullen said, standing.
"Can you stoke the fire?" Killeen asked, pulling the blankets back up.
"Of course."
She drifted off again while he was gone, half woke to the touch of his hands, gentle and warm against her chilled skin as he applied the salve. Blankets, heavy against her shoulder, a hand touching hers, flames cracking in the fireplace as he added wood …
The crackling of the snow crust beneath her boots, flakes building up on her shoulders until they weigh her down, cold and damp. One step, another step, eyes on the tall figure ahead, torch held high, fair head crowned with snow, striding onward …
He stumbles, catches himself, takes one more step and falls.
Killeen plunges forward, dragging her feet through deep drifts that clutch at her legs as if deliberately, maliciously, trying to keep her from reaching him. The distance she has to cover seems to grow, not shrink, as she staggers forward, heart pounding with effort, breath coming in sobbing gasps and a stitch in her side so fierce she can barely stand. She can hear him calling her, Kill, come on, Kill —
Finally she reaches him, the garish cloak dimmed by a layer of snow, seizes his shoulders and tries to heave him over. He's heavy, too heavy for her to move and she pants and sobs and tries, again and again, the blizzard heavier now, the chill of it biting to the bone. Snow piling up, higher and higher, and finally she pulls and heaves and curses and he rolls and she sees his eyes, open and sightless, touches his face and finds the skin cold as the snow that falls heavier and heavier on them both. Still, he's calling her, although his lips are still and blue, calling her name as the snow covers him no matter how she tries to brush it away, falling faster than she can keep up with, and she scoops frantically, digging with numb hands, but it's deeper and deeper and now she can't see his face at all, only the fringe of his cloak.
And then that is gone too and she is alone.
The snow pours down, the chill reaching deeper and deeper inside her, cracking her bones like ice-laden branches, seeping into every corner of her heart, freezing the tears on her cheeks, freezing his name before it can leave her lips, hearing him from beneath the snow, Kill, please, Kill —
"Kill, please, wake up!"
She opened her eyes.
There was no snow, no blizzard. She was in her bed, Cullen leaning over her with his hands on her shoulders. He was in his shirt-sleeves, cheeks flushed with heat and the hair at his temples damp and curling with sweat, while behind him the fire blazed almost to the flue.
And yet she was still cold beyond bearing, as if the blizzard still gripped her, numbing her hands and feet, making her shiver so convulsively the chattering of her teeth sent stabs of pain through her jaw. The cold stole her breath, squeezed her racing, labouring heart, froze her voice as she tried to ask him for water, please, water, I'm so thirsty …
Cullen took her hand, touched her cheek. "Maker's breath, you're ice." He flung himself to his feet and strode to the door.
Raised voices, one of them Cullen's, too far away for Killeen to make sense of them. She wrapped her arms around the ache in her side, curled around it, tried to make her lungs draw in enough air to breathe through it.
The healer, looking down at her: "A chill brought on by over-exertion."
"This is not a chill," Cullen said, shouldered the healer aside hard enough to make the man stagger, and swept Killeen up off the bed in a tangle of blankets.
Ceiling, doorway, open sky … She watched the stars swinging crazily beyond Cullen's shoulder as he carried her across the courtyard and up the stairs, saw them replaced by the lamps of the Great Hall, which seemed to rise up into the air, further and further away …
Cullen glanced down at her. "Hold on, Kill," he said, and Killeen couldn't make sense of the urgency in his voice. "Hold on. Don't let go. Don't you dare let go."
Yes, ser.
Through a door, up a flight of stairs into a room rich with rugs and lamps and glass. Voices — Cullen's, ragged, a woman's, warm.
Gentle hands touched her, green glow, and the room swung more slowly, settled, was still.
Killeen realised she was lying on the Inquisitor's big, soft bed, and the Inquisitor herself, robe slung carelessly over her shoulders, was looking down at her.
"Water," she begged, and the Inquisitor herself turned to pour a goblet full, held it to Killeen's lips.
"It was — I've seen men go down in battle, wounds too deep for the healers to reach them," Cullen said. "They shake, like that, can't get their breath, like that. But the wound's healed." He took a shaky breath, ran his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry — with Lady Vivienne gone I couldn't think who —"
"Cullen, of course it's all right," the Inquisitor said. She laid her hand on Killeen's chest and frowned. Another pulse of healing magic swept from her fingers and Killeen felt her heart steady a little, slow slightly. Everything seemed very far away and unimportant, the bed, the room, the Inquisitor, her own body — even Cullen. "What does the healer say?"
"A chill," Cullen said, fists clenching, "a chill, and her dying in front of him."
"There are agues that would explain the rigour and the sweat," the Inquisitor said. Her robe had slipped from one shoulder, and Killeen noticed distantly that Cullen was so accustomed to the mage's body he didn't even glance at the creamy breast now visible. "But her skin is cool. Kill, can you hear me? Do you have pain, anywhere?"
"Side," Killeen croaked.
"She has a bruise," Cullen said, and Killeen felt him draw up her shirt, and then: "Maker. It wasn't that bad —"
Hands touched the ache, eased it. "She is bleeding," the Inquisitor said. "I can feel it. But —" She frowned. "I wish I'd had time to learn more from Vivienne before she left."
"We can send for her," Cullen said.
"It'd take days," the Inquisitor said, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
"But you can — she's better, now," Cullen pleaded. "You can keep her well, until Lady Vivienne comes. Can't you?"
"Cullen, I've used almost everything I have already, and it won't last." The Inquisitor touched Killeen's side again. "I can feel the blood, it's flooding out of her, but where it's coming from … there's nothing. If it was a wound I could see, then I could — but I just can't tell."
"If you could see it, you could help her?" Cullen asked urgently, and when the Inquisitor nodded: "I'll be right back."
The bed gave a little as he got up, and Killeen wanted to cry out no, don't leave me but before she could make her numb lips co-operate, he was gone at a run.
"Kill," the Inquisitor said, leaning over to look in her eyes, hand gentle on her cheek. "Stay awake, now. Stay with me. You're in shock, do you understand? You have to fight it." Another glow of magic, fainter now. "I'm not telling Cullen when he gets back that he's too late. Hear me? Keep fighting it."
Unmeasurable time passed, marked only by each gasping breath, each beat of her staggering heart, the chill creeping slowly back. Killeen fought it, struggled to keep the ceiling above her clear and steady, to keep her eyes from closing, fought for a breath and the one after it and the one after that …
Footsteps, a new voice. A face she knew, one of the Chargers, the dark-skinned man they called Stitches, using language worthy of the Iron Bull himself when he saw her side.
And Cullen — Killeen saw with a jolt of horror that ripped the haze around her aside that his hands were full of blue bottles, a double fistful, and she opened her mouth to say no, Cullen, no—
He dropped them in the Inquisitor's lap and she nodded her thanks, drained two in haste and laid her hands on Killeen's flank again.
"I'll have to cut her," Stitches said. "She'll have to be still."
"I can make her sleep," the Inquisitor said, but the Charger's surgeon shook his head.
"Too shocky," he said. He handed a cup to Cullen. "Get her to drink this. All of it."
Cullen nodded, and slipped an arm beneath Killeen's head, raising her a little and holding the cup to her lips. She was desperately thirsty again but the concoction in the cup tasted so foul she gagged on the first mouthful.
"All of it," Cullen said remorselessly, and tilted the cup again. He gave her a brief respite as she swallowed against the bile that burned her throat and threatened to flood her mouth, then made her drink again, and again.
By the time the cup was empty, Killeen's mouth was numb from the concentration of elfroot in the dose, Cullen's face drifting in and out of focus as he laid her down again and then leaned over her, hands on her shoulders. "You must hold still, Kill, understand?"
"This'll hurt," Stitches warned.
"How much?" Killeen croaked. "How much will it hurt?"
"On a scale of one to dragon, probably a seven."
"Fuckin' nothing, then," Killeen said. "Had … worse … eating breakfast."
But she hadn't, and Stitches was right: it did hurt, through the elfroot, even through the Inquisitor's magic. First a sharp, keen pang that was followed by a gush of warmth that flooded down Killeen's side and spread across the sheet beneath her.
"What are you doing?" Cullen asked sharply, his grip on Killeen's shoulders slackening a little.
"That's blood she's already lost," Stitches said. "Hold her still, man, this is hard enough as it is."
Then a sharp, twisting pain like an arrow striking her side but slowly, slowly, pushed in or pushed out by a remorseless, vicious hand. Killeen gritted her teeth, ground them, as the pain went on and on … and on and on …
"Look at me," Cullen's warm voice said, and Killeen opened her eyes, met his steady amber gaze. His voice was soft and even but his jaw was set and there were marks of strain around his eyes. "Nearly done, now, Kill. Nearly done. Hold on. Nearly done."
It was a lie, the first twenty times he said it, and then suddenly Stitches gave a crow of triumph and it was true. The pain eased, settled into a bearable ache. The Inquisitor gulped more lyrium, laid her hands back on Killeen's abdomen and Killeen felt her flesh knit, skin drawing together, felt her heart rate slow and could, suddenly, get enough air without straining for it.
She drifted in a pleasant lassitude made up of the combined effects of sudden relief from pain and a truly massive dose of elfroot, listening with mild interest to the voices around her.
"What the fuck is this, then?" Stitches asked, holding out one hand with a tiny fleck of something half the size of a nail paring balanced on a bloody forefinger.
The Inquisitor peered at it, brushed it with the tip of her own manicured finger. "Dragon scale," she said matter-of-factly.
"It must have in there when the wound was closed," Stitches said. "Working its way around, until it lodged against one of the big veins and ripped it open."
"My fault," the Inquisitor said. "When we found her — I was thinking about being fast, not careful."
"That's been inside her this whole time?" Cullen asked, and the surgeon nodded. "Maker's breath, how could they not realise?"
"It's a fragment of scale from a corrupt lyrium dragon, Cullen," the Inquisitor said patiently. "It resists magic, and it doesn't feel like anything they would have had contact with. I couldn't feel it, and I spent twenty minutes picking similar scales out of my arm after the fight in Haven."
"Is it the only one?" Cullen asked.
"Is it?" Stitches asked the Inquisitor, carefully putting the piece of scale in a jar and sealing it.
The mage leaned forward, fingers tracing lines over Killeen's side and ribs, eyes closed. "I can't feel anything," she said at last. "No bleeding. No dark spots. No gaps. But we'll send for Vivienne, just in case."
"Ship cutting through the waves, sail belled full." Cole said, squatting atop the Inquisitor's desk. "Darling, the winds wait for me."
"Maker's fucking foreskin!" Stitches said, leaping to his feet.
"Vivienne's on her way?" the Inquisitor asked, and Cole nodded.
He hopped down from the desk and was suddenly beside Killeen. "You wanted me, and I couldn't come. I'm sorry. I had to go a long way to find someone who knew her."
"'s all right," Killeen managed to say.
"The snow will melt, now," Cole said seriously, and in Killeen's hazy state it seemed to almost have a note of warning. Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone.
"He's right, I think," the Inquisitor said. "She'll be all right, with rest."
"Warmth and fluids," Stitches said, fastening his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder.
Cullen let out a long breath. "Thank you," he said fervently, shaking the surgeon's hand and then taking the Inquisitor in his arms. Killeen closed her eyes against the sight. "Maker bless you both."
"Cullen —" the Inquisitor said after a moment, slightly breathless. "Cullen — you're squashing me."
"Forgive me," he said.
She laughed. "Always. Even for turning my bedroom into a surgery. I'd better get someone to change these sheets."
More voices, and Killeen felt herself lifted, laid down again on dry linen. Hands stripped her clothes from her, and she was washed with soft towel, then re-dressed. Silence again, broken by the chink of pottery. The bed sagged a little. "Come on, Kill, you should drink this," Cullen said.
She opened her eyes and began to raise herself on her elbows, but he slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her to lean against him, held the cup to her lips. Killeen tasted tea, strong and milky, and sipped obediently until the cup was empty, head clearing a little. The crushing fatigue that had lain over her for weeks had softened, transmuted into a sleepy weariness that was almost pleasant.
Cullen set the cup aside and adjusted the blankets around her, still holding her against his chest. "Warm enough?"
"Getting there," Killeen said. Through their linen shirts she could feel the heat of his body slowly seeping in to her own chilled flesh.
"You're going to be fine." His familiar voice sounded odd, heard in tandem with the trip-hammer of his heartbeat beneath her head. "It wasn't red lyrium itself, and it didn't carry any taint."
They were things that Killeen herself hadn't thought to worry about, but now the idea caught at her throat. "Andraste …" she said, voice shaking.
"Didn't happen, won't happen," Cullen said. His hand made warm, comforting circles on her back. "You need to rest, and then you'll be fine. As good as new."
"That'll take some doing," Killeen said, forcing herself to keep her tone light, was rewarded by Cullen's soft chuckle.
"Better than new," he said, and paused. "As good as when I — sent you. There."
"Sent me to do a job," she reminded him. "Which I did."
"You could have died there, Kill. For days I thought you had. And you've been dying by inches in front of me since then, and I —" His arms tightened around her.
And if only we weren't sitting on his lover's bed.
Killeen took a deep breath. "Cullen?"
"Yes?"
"Did you carry me all the way up here by yourself?"
"Yes."
Killeen straightened, forcing him to loosen his hold on her, and looked him in the face with a frown of concern. "I do hope you haven't put your back out." He gaped at her, and for good measure she added: "You're not as young as you used to be, you know."
It won her a twitch of his lips, a lightening of the guilt in his eyes. "There's gratitude," he said. "From a woman, what, a year younger than I am?"
"One year, eight months, thank you," Killeen said with great dignity. And then, because she was so very tired, and the temptation was so very great, she laid her head back down on his shoulder. "I think you're going to have to carry me back down again when the Inquisitor wants her bed back."
"If you're going to make jibes about my age," Cullen said, "you can damn well walk." His hand was gentle on her hair, belying his tone. "But not just now. Lady Trevelyan has found accommodation elsewhere for the night."
"Nice of her," Killeen murmured, letting her eyes close.
If he answered, she didn't hear it above the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath her head, a rhythm that seemed to rock her like the waves beneath Vivianne's ship, easing her gently into a deep and dreamless sleep.